The Downward Spiral
by satanics
Summary: How can you save the person you love from themselves? Slash. Multiple pairings. Mainly ChristophexKyle. Rated for language.
1. Back to the Start

**1.**

**BACK TO THE START.**

It all started with a cigarette.

Actually, no. That's a lie; the seeds of this story were sown long ago, hidden under thick brown soil and long forgotten memories. The game was rigged before anyone even knew it was a game, before anyone knew better than to start a war no one could possibly win. Horrible, deplorable violence begets nothing but more of the same; it destroys everything in it's path, leaving nothing save the small, niggling feeling that things didn't have to turn out this way. It could have been stopped. No one had to die. Even if peace was restored, the damage was already done, the idea planted, it's roots digging down into the minds of every youth and soldier and civilian even in the aftermath. Some of the flowers would wither and die, most stayed behind the veil of consciousness; some blossomed and the hatred from which they were born, the aggression, the untainted rage, became them. For an unlucky majority, this built up and manifested itself in the destruction of what they saw around them. As more and more violence, yet more intolerance, gripped the world, it fed the monster inside. They corrupted the outside to mirror what they were on the inside: tainted, hateful and ignorant. The remainder turned in on themselves, trauma from childhood resulting in a downward spiral of self-destruction.

This is a story about that self-destruction.

* * *

"My, my, _my_, what's a filthy little Jew-rat like you doing in out here?"

Kyle looks up from his position on the concrete stairs, mild surprise mixed with disgust on his face. "Where's Kenny, Cartman?" He averts his gaze to the wall opposite, away from the bulky sadist, who, despite the offhand insult, seems happy to see him. And a 'happy' Cartman isn't good for the Jewish race. Or any other minority, for that matter. His malicious tendencies tend to fluctuate with his moods, meaning that a depressed, emo!Cartman would probably be better for all involved.

"Probably having some butt-fun with Stan. Dude, you know those two are so hot for each other—"

"Hey! Shut the_ fuck_ up, fatass!"

"Ay! _You _shut the fuck up, you fucking Jew. I'm not the one who wants to _fuck_ that asswipe Stan." Eric has descended the steps and now stands on the snow-covered black tarmac, facing the redhead. He looks giddy, like a little kid with a piece of its favourite candy – apart from the fact the candy is kosher, and in Eric's mind kosher candy sucks ass. (Kyle would readily agree with him, but that would be going against all of his Nazi-hating principles.)

The boy with the green hat wished that Cartman could go back to being depressed. Really, it was a lot better than the grinning, cackling, fucking creepy piece of shit he is when… Actually, when Butters is around. _'So that's why he's been so fucking chipper? His little blondie's back from Texas. Ha.'_

The Jew rolls his eyes at the other's hypocrisy and continues, hoping that the brunette will pick up on his unwillingness to fight and_ get the fuck away from him_. "I don't know why you think 'Jew' is an insult, fatass."

"Why are you so interested in my ass, _Kahl_?"

"I'm not interested in your ass, _Cartman_. It just happens to be difficult to ignore, seeing as it's twice the size of fucking China." He leans back against the cold concrete, trying to forget about the six-foot-something hulking mass that's getting all "up in his grill", as Kenny oh-so eloquently puts it.

China isn't a word that should ever be uttered within ear-shot of Cartman. Kyle remembers this too late.

Instead of the fiery, screeching reply he's come to expect, the Nazi addresses him in a tone bordering on silky. "Oh, you may not be interested in _my _ass, but I know whose ass you _are_ interested in, you faggot. Wonder what he'd think if he knew you were a fucking gay fag?"

"Fuck you, Cartman. I'm not the one who's been _boning__** Butters**__!_"

Butters and Eric as butt-buddies has been a well kept secret for some time now; the only reason Kyle knows anything about it was his tendency to use his awesome technological skills to hack his enemy's computer for incriminating evidence. What he found on one of his routine checks was enough to give him nightmares, rather than the typically "squeaky clean" hard-drive of the pseudo-sociopath. He had enough blackmail on Cartman to last him the rest of his natural born life.

What Kyle never counted on was the fat Nazi having something on him. But, Kyle guessed it was only a matter of time – after all, his vice _was_ the kind that left scars. Homosexuality – while dabbled in – didn't often do that, unless you're kinky as shit (and Kyle thinks Cartman probably is, though he has no interest in finding out the extent of his "fucked up way of fucking").

Cartman pales. His massive form is perfectly still, his head bowed. Kyle isn't sure if it's embarrassment or pure rage that's brought him to a complete halt; the outcome for either isn't something he wants to see first-hand. Not again.

"**How **_**dare**_** you?"** The taller boy lashes out with one pudgy hand and grabs Kyle by his coat collar, hoisting him up into the air. The redhead struggles, legs kicking wildly, hitting nothing but cold air; he uses his arms to try and loosen the vice-like grip holding him aloft. A sadistic grin flashes across his round face as he watches the skinny Jew writhe and snarl in his grasp; he leans in close to Kyle, until their gazes are level, smug brown eyes gazing into defiant green ones. "You know, Kahl, I'd hate it if people found out about what you and young Kenneth do behind closed doors – _behind the bike shed_ – because you know how people would react. You'd be thrown out of South Park _so fucking fast_." He seems to savour that thought for a few seconds, a smile playing across his lips.

Suddenly, he shakes Kyle violently, the Jew's breaths coming out in gasps as he struggles for oxygen. Cartman doesn't relent, instead, pulling the redhead's face close to his, he speaks again in the most sinister voice Kyle has ever heard. "You tell anyone, and I swear to god, you fucking piece of shit, I will _fuck you up_. And not in the way I'm sure you'd enjoy. Do you understand me?"

Kyle nods, trying to force back the tears that are stinging his eyes.

"I said: do you **fucking** understand me, Jew?"

"Y-yes. I-I understand." Eric releases his grip, letting Kyle fall to the ground in a breathless heap of orange and green. It takes him a minute or two to get his breath back, all the while cursing the rotund slab of lard that always insisted on pulling random shit like this. Oh no, the holocaust wasn't enough for_ Herr _Cartman; there were still far too many Jews left traipsing about with their menorahs and – and… Whatever Cartman thought Jews traipsed about with. Eric wasn't exactly known for his encyclopaedic knowledge on world religions. Hell, he hadn't even read the fucking Bible.

By the time Kyle gets up, Cartman is gone.

"_Motherfucker._" He murmurs the expletive under his breath, re-adjusting his lime ushanka.

But, the redhead isn't going to go back inside any time soon, so he resumes sitting on the steps, waiting for Kenny to finally show up.

* * *

Lunch break finishes; Kyle finally starts to get up.

He knows that Kenny isn't coming. Secretly, he knows he never was.

He knows he'll see him two hours later when school's over, at his house, in his room with a glass pipe in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other.

* * *

From a distance, a dark-haired boy watched the fight with barely veiled disinterest. He looked on as the fat kid waddled off – probably to cause more chaos, maybe even an earthquake if he had gym – and, strangely, the scrawny, pale boy sat back down on the steps.

The brunette took a long drag on his cigarette, silently observing from the corner, half of his form hidden from view. If the green-eyed boy were to so much as glance in his direction, he would be at serious risk of appearing to be some sort of stalker. Not that he was staring – no, he was just _curious_. Simple curiosity might have killed the proverbial cat, but that cat was probably a bitch and deserved to die. Or god hated it. Whatever.

But, see, what was curious about this boy wasn't his appearance. Yes, his fashion sense may have been an affront to humanity – orange and green should never be seen, unless there's something else in between – and the dark circles around his sunken eyes, not terribly noticeable to the untrained eye, were of no interest to him either. Garden variety addict, most probably; or, like the boy so intently watching him, insomnia and, uh, _stress_. (Being a mercenary was **not** a relaxing job, no matter what the goddamn brochure said.)

What was really, really interesting about the boy, was that he was sitting in a place he'd dubbed "Smoker's Alley", sans cigarette.

And no one – _no one_ – came to the alley without a cigarette. Even the druggies came here with a pack or two to bribe the other kids so they wouldn't tell.

Then, there was this little redhead sitting there oblivious to the hordes of people just around the corner. The Goths wouldn't be too happy that another "conformist" had moved onto their territory; those annoying kids that thought they were badass might try to rough him up a little… But, most people probably wouldn't care. They were just like the brunette, going to smoke between periods or whenever they got the chance, rarely acknowledging anyone else's existence.

After about ten minutes of sitting there (and three cigarettes later for the voyeur), the boy with the green hat, Kyle… _Broccoli_, or something, stood up.

"'Ey, mon ami, where are you off to?"

Kyle turned around to face him, somewhat surprised. Well, it wasn't as if Christophe had spoken to him before, so why wouldn't he be apprehensive? The French teenager didn't exactly look like Captain Cheerful – au contrare, he prided himself on his menacing appearance. It was useful in his line of work.

Dressed head-to-toe in black, the mercenary sauntered down the narrow space between the two buildings. The Jewish boy leaned against the grey railings, looking at the other with confusion. "What, dude? What the hell do you want?"

"You smoke?" The question was simple.

"Uhm, kinda. I don't know. Sometimes."

A smirk. "Yes or no, mon ami? Eet iz simple."

The redhead paused, still frowning and staring at Christophe like he was a green mutant with two heads. "…Yeah, I, uh, I smoke. I guess." For a second, his expression was unreadable, like he was thinking of something that had nothing to do with the current exchange; even the brunette couldn't decipher the emotion in the other's eyes.

It was unsettling, to say the least.

"Ah, so you do smoke." Shrugging off the uneasy feeling, he pulled a packet out of his pocket and offered it to the shorter teen. "Voulez-vous une cigarette? On peut se tutoyer, non?"

Kyle took the packet of Lucky Strike offered, cautiously removed one, and tossed it back to the French guy standing next to him. "I don't speak French."

"Mais, you _are_ in ze French AP, non?"

Green eyes almost bugged out of their sockets as he looked at the boy in black. "How do _you_ know what classes I'm in?"

"I take ze French AP also."

"Oh." Lighting the cigarette with Christophe's yellow lighter, he took a tiny drag before letting out a little, poorly hidden, cough. "So, what did you want to talk to me about, Frenchy?"

Christophe 'tsk'ed., smirking at his inability to handle the noxious gas. "You 'ad quite ze fight earlier, wiz ze fat one."

"You were _**eavesdropping**_?"

"Non, I just saw 'im pick you up and put you down. Zat iz all, mon ami. I jus' `appened to be over zere." He nodded to the corner. Kyle took another pitiful drag and started to hack a lung up, cheeks an amusing shade of red. Though, from embarrassment or the burning pain of the smoke, the Frenchman couldn't tell. "Look, mon ami, perserverance is key. You `ave to keep up wiz eet. Eet will get better, I promise. Smoking iz not for ze quitter."

Kyle looked up at him, ignoring the advice. "What time is it, Frenchy?"

Apparently bored now, he looked at his watch. "Class time, I suppoze. I am not sure, I do not attend ze `alf of zem."

And, just like that, the cute little Jewish boy ran through the door, leaving his barely-touched cigarette on the floor. But, he was still just as interesting… maybe even more so.

Christophe couldn't shake the feeling that, besides the odd class, he knew the strange little redhead.

A good mercenary never forgets a face. And 'The Mole' was the best.

And things just _didn't add up_.

Snubbing out the finished Lucky Strike, he casually walked towards the car park, ever so intent on settling this confusion of his once and for all. Uncertainty led to fear. Fear led to obsession.

Obsession led to ruin.

* * *

**AN. So ends my first chapter. I know it sucks… And, I know, it switches back and forth between tenses. Sorry. I felt like it xD Fanfiction is still very new to me, so apologies if it's not terribly good. And, shockingly, I have a plot for this story. An actual, honest-to-god, **_**plot**_**. However lame it might be xD And however OOC the the characters may be/become.**

**Just so you know, there's probably going to be a lot of blood, guts, violence and drugs involved in this fic. Oh, and slash. Lots of slash. Yay! for slash.**

**Anyway, multiple pairings, but the main one will be Kyle x Christophe. ('Tophelovski ftw. 3)**

**Soyeah~ Read and review? :3**

— **Coma.**


	2. The Me That You Know

**2.**

**THE ME THAT YOU KNOW.**

Once upon a time, Kyle Broflovski had been a straight arrow.

He had his goals, shining beacons dotted about the bull's-eye, ahead of him, and behind him the memories of past achievements, discarded as dead weight. Morally, he sat atop a pedestal; the very definitions of right and wrong etched inside his skull with permanent marker, while he abandoned his appreciation for the greyness of the human condition. His was no halfway house. Everything that opposed him burned and turned to ash, incinerated by nothing more than his fierce, unrelenting will.

Once upon a time, Kyle Broflovski had been a supernova in his own right.

However, as he sped, swiftly slicing through the resistance, a lightning bolt with a sharpened tip trailed by feathers, he had never accounted for the winds. The ruthless winds. The winds that could – _would_ – blow him off course.

* * *

As he expected, Kenny was sitting, prone, on his tiny single bed, the duvet a crumpled pile on the floor.

"Hey, Ky." Drawled the blond, grinning obscenely.

The Jew returned his smile, flopping down on the old mattress by his friend's feet. The bedsprings gave a loud creaky complaint as he continued to make himself comfy, throwing his bag onto the floor, closely followed by his old ushanka.

"Dude." Kyle flipped over onto his stomach, hand outstretched towards the other. "How's life?"

Kenny took a long drag on the glass tube before passing it on, the grin fading into a content smirk. "Shit, as always, dude." The redhead gave a little chuckle, sucking in the thick white smoke spewing from the pipe. "Sorry about today. I got, like, caught up and shit. Bebe was all, like–"

Taking another drag, the shorter of the two waved a hand dismissively. "I knew you weren't coming, so it's fine."

"You know I hate leaving you hanging."

Catching the sympathy that undercut Kenny's voice, Kyle scowled. "I know, dude. Don't care." Talking was becoming a little more difficult, his lips pleasantly numb. Almost like being drunk. Actually, quite a lot like being drunk; the little filter between his brain and his mouth suddenly vanished. It seemed as if the same had happened to his blue-eyed companion, who'd started talking about some girl he'd never heard of and her amazing tits.

"I, uh, met someone today."

That snapped the blond out of his little monologue, and he snickered, the familiar perverted smile playing across his features. "Who?"

"Don't know his name. But… I dunno. It was just a conversation, but yeah. The only interesting thing in my whole fucking day." Apart from getting his ass handed to him by Cartman, but that humiliating ordeal hurt his brain too much, so he tucked the memory away for another time.

Another drag and a pause as the boy with the orange parka exhaled, a little cloud drifting upward into the smog that obscured the low, cracked ceiling. "Is he hot?"

"Dude, what the fuck? I'm not a fucking fag."

Kenny scoffed. "_Yeah_, and the Pope's not Catholic."

* * *

"Bubbie, is that you?"

He froze in the doorway, afraid to so much as breathe.

'_Shit.'_

"Bubbie?" His mom walked through from the kitchen, a frown set on her aging face. Her eyes betrayed her rage, but her words rang of nothing but concern. "Where have you been, Kyle?"

The boy stepped into the house, shutting the front door behind him with a pleasant 'thud'. "I was studying with Kenny, Mom. Sorry I'm back so—"

"_Kyle_." Oh, fuck. Sheila looked less kind than before, the anger from her glowing eyes slowly radiating out to the rest of her body. Even with her pathetic height, the Jewish woman was a formidable force to be reckoned with; her son daren't test her patience. No, not today. "You _know_ what the rules are, young man."

The statement was true: he did know the rules of the house. He knew them so well that he could recite them off the top of his head while juggling knives and writing a love sonnet simultaneously. But, he was sixteen, and he would be damned if he kept to that sodding, useless curfew. Nine thirty? How old did they think he was? Thirteen?

In all actuality, they'd already argued the laws of the land to the point of oblivion. The same problem arose time and time again, a point that had nothing to do with the rules and more to do with the tyrant of a woman imposing them and the delinquent of a teenager who had the nerve to challenge her. Simply put, the two redheads were far too alike for any good to come of it; both had the very same passionate, turbulent, _explosive_ qualities to their personality that left the other two members in their family trying to put out the flames.

Obviously, neither Kyle nor Sheila would ever admit that they shared more than just hair colour. Maybe hubris was genetic?

"Why are you back half an hour past your curfew?"

The dreaded question. The Jewish boy bit the inside of his lip, still faintly numb from his one major vice. No matter what he said now, no matter how good his excuse was, he would be grounded.

And that was the last thing he needed.

"I was with Kenny, we have a project to do for English, and we were making a start on it tonight. I didn't mean to be back so late, but the first bit took a lot longer than we thought it would."

Plausible, but not foolproof. If his mom didn't believe him, he knew she'd phone up the school and demand knowledge of this non-existent English project, which would leave him grounded for even longer. But, if it got him out of trouble and harm's way, then it was well worth it.

"Well, if that was the case, Kyle, then why didn't you call?"

Shit.

Fuck.

_FUCK._

He wished he didn't still have that wonderful feeling of floating across an ocean of contentment pricking at the surface of his skin. He wished he could think clearly. He wished he hadn't messed up.

"Look, I'm so sorry mom—"

"Really? _Then why didn't you call_?" Her voice rose in pitch by a whole octave, her body trembling with pent-up fury. "Why do you never call, Kyle? I didn't raise you to be this selfish! Think of us, Kyle. Think of us, sitting here, wondering if something happened to you on your way home from school; if you're off doing something totally irresponsible—"

The remainder of the lecture sounded more like static buzzing in his ears, like a million bees flying about his head in orbit. Her painted pink lips were moving, but the only sound her vocal chords could make was nothing more than white noise.

Standing impassive at the foot of the stairs, he watched as her movements became more and more exaggerated, her face darkening to mimic the pigmentation of her curly hair. The teenager saw her get more worked up, more angry and more righteous in her condemnation of his actions.

"_GO TO YOUR ROOM, KYLE! I WILL NOT HAVE YOU DISRESPECTING THE RULES OF THIS HOUSE!!"_

It was the same _every fucking time_.

_Every. __Fucking__. Time._

_

* * *

_

Underneath a bed, locked inside a box, stashed in a hidden compartment lay a book. Inside the book, stashed inside a compartment, locked inside a box, underneath a bed, there were hundreds of scribbles. Messages, written in a cryptic cipher, spanned the pages, drawings and cut-outs wedged between, glued securely or fastened with copious amounts of tape.

Inside the book lay the ramblings of a madman.

Or, if not the workings of a madman, those of one standing on the precipice, staring down into the abyss.

* * *

The cool, muted rays of morning light brought a new perspective to the small town of South Park. Streets, often so tired and weary from the frosty climate, paint starting to peel and foundations groaning silently under the weight of the snow, were given new life. Children on their way to school walked alongside their elders who trampled dutifully to work. November air worked its wonders, and, soon, the place was animated; not on the same scale as a city, no, never, but the inhabitants were out and about, bravely venturing into the snow and ice like only they knew how.

And, standing and watching this fascinating transformation, was Christophe.

Atop a whitewashed hill with his trusty shovel clutched in his muddy, calloused hands, he contemplated leaving the safety of the woods for the energy of the town. It wasn't a welcoming prospect; the school sat on the other side of the settlement, just beyond the hospital he so fervently avoided.

Gun shot wounds and the like weren't terribly inconspicuous. Besides, he didn't want to die of exsanguination in the emergency room because of a stab wound in the gut, while he waited on incompetent doctors to come to his aid.

'_On fait son petit bonhomme de chemin, non? Ce qui ne tue pas rend plus fort.'_

It was times like this he missed his homeland. The powder white snow, the smell of mountain air… His little town of Annecy, so old and so beautiful, was so very, very far from this corner of hell. Paris was closer, the faint memories of le Tour D'Eiffel at night, in all her glory, illuminated by that stunning golden light, were still more vivid than those of his birthplace.

The brunette cursed his mother, the fucking bitch, and her worthless faggot of a lord for dragging him across the shitting _Atlantic_. For what purpose? Distance. His mother was a weak-willed woman, too terrified of her own past to remain in Europe; too terrified of her future to leave the ways she'd vowed to cast aside.

_Ha._ The hired hand had lived more life in his sixteen measly years than she had in her thirty-five long ones.

A yellow bus trundled along one of the slick roads, wheels wrapped in chains for traction's sake. His eyes, a dark, foreboding shade of brown, closer to the black pit carved into their heart, follow the vehicle as it winds across the town. In his mind's eye, he could picture them all sitting there, laughing and talking without a care in the world.

Ignorance is bliss.

For a brief moment, he was stilled. Was it wrong to envy their innocence? Possibly. But, it was his own choice to live the life he lived, his own childish need for the exhilaration of the chase, the hunt.

'…_The slaughter.'_

Hoisting the heavy metal over his shoulder, he began his descent, sliding on the balls of his feet down the steep incline. The weight of the shovel almost set him off balance as he reached the base of the hill, his speed mixed with the all-too efficient grip of his ex-Soviet boots could have resulted in a most unfortunate face-meets-floor accident, if it wasn't for the large tree in his path.

Instead, it was a collision between his face and the solid, frozen bark of the pine.

"…**Merde**."

Even mercenaries had their off days.

* * *

"Dude, where's your hat?"

"Huh?"

"Your hat, dude, what happened to it?"

Kyle looked at Stan as if he'd lost his mind.

"What do you mean, 'what happened to it'?"

The football player pointed at the mass of curls on his friend's head, still confused. "You always wear that hat, man. Did Cartman take it, or something?"

"Uh…" Running a hand through his hair, the redhead gave a sheepish smile and laughed. "No dude, I just… Sorta… _Forgot_ it."

Unimpressed by this, his best friend turned to his locker. "At serious risk of sounding gay, you do look a lot better without it though, dude. That hat made you look like a total fag." Laughing, he started to pull books out and, without checking the subjects on them, piled them into his bag.

However, the Jew didn't share his friend's sentiments. "Hey, that's real nice of you to say so, Stan." Huffing, he started to take his textbooks out of his own locker, grimacing. "You couldn't have told me you hated my hat ten years ago, could you? Oh _no_. You have to wait—"

"Dude, seriously, fucking chill, alright. I was making a joke. But, you seriously look better without it." He put a hand on Kyle's shoulder, soothing the forever-moody boy. "What's been eating you lately? You're so on-edge, man. I thought only the fatass could piss you off so much."

Yet again, Kyle found himself waving off another's concern with a small smile and lacklustre laugh. "Don't worry about me, Stan. I'm fine. I've just got tonnes of fucking homework and shit to do." The brunette chuckled, the worry in his eyes receding. "See, I'm fine. You guys worry too much about me. Seriously."

Stan smiled, nodding. "You're probably right, dude."

"I_ know_ I'm right."

"Well, you would say that." Glancing at the clock on the wall of the hall, he swore under his breath. "Shit. I'm supposed to be meeting Wendy, like, five minutes ago. Uh, bye Kyle! See you in English, yeah?"

Before Kyle had a chance to reply, his 'super best friend' was sprinting down the hallway, dodging the other students like a pro. He didn't want to think about how pissed Wendy would be with Stan, despite how close they'd become over the years. Fuck. It wasn't as if he could follow their relationship, anyhow. Their 'love' was more complicated than calculus, and calculus was a bitch, even with all that 'daywalker' blood running through his veins.

Sighing, he wandered in the general direction of his first class, clutching the strap of his messenger bag like a lifeline.

* * *

**AN. Yeah, another boring chapter xD I know it may not be terribly good, but I had the sudden urge to write, which is a very rare thing for me. Plus, a super-speedy update! :3 Anyway, this story will probably be quite long, as I'm a bit OCD about unravelling things slowly, even though it annoys a lot of people.**

**Anyway, read and review~ 3 (Thank you to those who did review ^^; just thought I'd mention it, because you people rock. Seriously.)**

**AND, the translations for the French:**

_'__One gets on with life, no? What doesn't kill one only makes one stronger.'_

_Merde = Shit._

_Tour d'Eiffel = Eiffel Tower._

**xD I just realised I didn't add the french translations for the last chapter. Ooops.**

— **Coma.**


	3. French

**3.**

**FRENCH****.**

Silver or lead?

That is the question.

If the answer is silver then there will be the question of how much is to be exchanged; if the answer is lead then there will be no more questions. There will be no body for the family to lament, no clue save the empty testimony and man dressed in black, walking away with just a bit more than he started with.

When asked about his profession, his detestable 'life choice' he will say nothing. The man dressed in black has no words with which to describe why – _how_ – he does what he does; comrades wonder if the human in him chose lead a long time ago and vanished like all the others. Each has their own method of coping with their vocation, for some it is a means to an end, for others a hobby, something to pass the time. For him it seems to be neither. It is a calling.

The man dressed in black tells himself that the thrill is his raison d'être. But, sometimes, he finds himself waiting – not on bated breath, _oh no_ – for the moment when his brain refuses to take anymore. The day when he gives up and the guilt and pain he's been running from for so long catch up to him. The day his own actions reduce him to nothingness.

Times rarer still, the man dressed in black finds himself waiting, _wondering_, when they'll ask him the question.

Silver or lead? Sadly, he already knows his answer.

* * *

What was it about the French? Even the most sordid, guttural phrases sounded exquisite falling from their lips. Their words wrapped around each other in a sensual embrace, flowing, flawless as new-spun silk. Wait, no; not silk, velvet. _Crushed_ velvet. Hardly as smooth as silk, but as a fabric it was deeper, warmer and more inviting after a long, hard day in the cold. Kyle loved French.

Sadly, the Jew wasn't exactly confident with foreign languages.

Yes, vocabulary could easily be learned by rote, as could idioms and "key" phrases – i.e. insults –, but the grammar always escaped him. While many of the other students in the class had a fairly even skill set, his was biased towards the words themselves. With English, he could just_ feel_ the way the sentence should fall on the page. It was easy; his thoughts just trickled from down his arm and in turn the pen nib with no effort expelled. Having to think about things before he said them, really having to put the clauses together carefully to attain the same level of precision as in his native tongue, was difficult.

It wasn't often the young redhead found things so challenging.

But challenge was something that thrilled him; or, it_ would_ have done. Now it just seemed utterly pointless.

French AP was his second class of the day and by far the most mentally exhausting. Annoyingly, the Jew was already starting to fall asleep, head creeping slowly towards the desk with each passing second. Their teacher, a waif of a woman with short, neat blond hair, would have taken a sympathetic stance with her student; while _Madame_ Jones was infamous for her strict work ethic, she was also known for her unforgiving favouritism. Thankfully, the sleepy teenager with bright carmine hair and even brighter eyes, slumped over his desk in the middle of the classroom, was on that short list.

Speaking of the list…

For the first time, he noticed the tall stranger that had spoken to him behind the lunch hall the day before. _Christophe_. The French dude who was taking French AP for an easy ride. Smart, that – to take your own language as a subject. At least he could rest easy with the knowledge that he'd get an A come rain or shine. Lucky bastard.

Really, it was no wonder Mrs Jones adored the sullen European.

"Maintenant, prenez votre livres." Snapping back to reality with a thud as text books crashed open across the small room, he noticed the detailed paragraphs written on the board in his teacher's patented cursive handwriting. "Page… 154, exercise three."

It took a few moments for everyone to read the small blue box full of writing, before smiles broke out on people's faces. "Oui, partner-up, people." On her command, chairs began scraping across the linoleum floor, desks shifting closer to one another as his fellow classmates joined their friends for a good gossip. Under the guise of French oral practice, of course.

Resigned to having to work with Sally again, another poor soul in his class who'd been stranded in a room without her friends, he went to get up to wind his way through the carnage. Only, before he could rise from his seat, a chair was slung haphazardly in front of his desk with a loud clatter.

"'Allo, Kyle." Christophe planted himself in the chair by the freckled boy's desk. "Partner wiz me?"

The offer seemed innocent enough, and it wasn't as if Kyle was eager to join the brace-faced girl once more. "Sure, dude."

"So, 'ow are we going to do zis?"

"Uhm, I don't know. You can start if you want. You're probably a lot better at this than I am, anyway." Kyle chuckled, prompting Christophe to do the same.

Sighing, the Frenchman smiled amicably. It looked strained. "Mais, mon ami, I am not ze one who needs ze practice. No offence, but you are right: I 'ave ze French, as you say, 'down'."

Cranky from lack of sleep, he just about registered what his partner was saying. Though, after years of having to work with Cartman and Kenny, little sirens started going off in his head. "Well, then why did you want to partner with me if you aren't gonna fucking do anything?" He slid down further into the cold plastic chair. People _always_ did this to him: asking to work with him, and then, annoyingly, doing none of said 'work' themselves.

Christophe simply chuckled at the other's tone, ignoring the strange tinge of hurt lacing the words. "We are bitchy today, are we not? I jus' want to get to know you better, zere iz nozing wrong wiz zat."

The Jewish boy seethed, glaring over his books. "You wanted to be my partner so you could fucking _hit on me_? Are you fucking kidding me, dude?"

This was not going according to plan. Hell, Christophe had asked around the school (or, two people) about the scrawny redhead. Apparently, he was very nice. _Apparently_. Somehow, they'd failed to mention the little shit's temper. How could you miss it? He was like a fucking _petrol bomb_! And the Frenchman didn't even do anything!

"What iz it wiz you fucking Americans?" Now he was getting the brunette all wound up, which wasn't the most intelligent idea of the day. Trying to be pleasant wasn't one of Christophe's many talents, and having it thrown back in his face did little else but infuriate him. "I am not 'hitting on you', you fucking idiot. I jus' want to fucking _talk_ to you. Why iz zis so _'ard_ for you?"

Snorting, the redhead willed himself to calm down and opened his mouth to reply, very civilly, when he was interrupted by their teacher. "_Boys_, that sounds distinctly like English." She shuffled the papers about on her desk, eyeing them before continuing her marking, occasionally looking up to check the state of affairs.

"Alors, salope, maintentant nous parlons le francais, d'accord?"

"Oui." With a sigh of resignation, Kyle read through some of the example questions. Understandably, he chose the easiest first. "Où habites-tu? Avec ton famille, ou seul?"

"Pourqoui t'es un émmerdant? Les Américains... J'sais pas." The lightly tanned teenager murmured under his breath before turning his attention to the question. In a bored tone, he began, rummaging through his pockets for a pen and paper. "J'habitait avec ma mère jusqu'y a à un an. Ma mère elle était une salope. Alors, en ce moment, j'habite dans un petit maison seulement… excepté mon chat, evidement." He focused on slowing down his speech and enunciating the words, trying to leave out annoying slang terms that would only serve to confuse.

"O-kay…" Laughing nervously, Kyle blushed a little. It was from the embarrassment. Yeah. Not the fact that the French sounded fantastic to his weary ears. Of course not. "I didn't understand any of that. A bit too fast for me."

"Basically, I lived wiz my mozer until a year ago, when I moved out. Now I live alone… Or, wiz my cat." Scribbling a few words on the paper, he returned it to his pocket. "Anyway, are we calm now? You 'ave ze mood swings of a woman wiz child."

"I do not have mood swings!" Another lie. _'Control, calm…'_ He repeated it in his head like a mantra. _'Let the sharks of anger swim away…'_ "I'm perfectly calm now. Just stop insulting me, Frenchy."

"Zen stop calling me Frenchy."

"No."

Christophe snickered at the way his partner's cheeks lit up at the slightest emotion. For a boy, Kyle _was_ cute… in a '_touch me and I kill you_' sort of way. Completely the opposite to the brunette's taskmaster. "Zen we will 'ave a problem." Smirking at the almost fearful expression that was returned, he leaned his elbows on the laminate desk. "Tu-habites avec ta famille?"

With the brunette making his towering height and impressive build yet more noticeable, subtly imposing his dominance in the conversation and purring at him in that deep, pleasantly gravelly, French, Kyle found it hard to suppress a shiver. This wasn't the first time the redhead had found himself physically attracted to someone so obviously straight; he blamed those fucking teenage hormones lighting his veins on fire. Hell, any reasonably good-looking guy with an accent would have been in with a chance if his libido got its way; thank Jehovah for self-control. Fuck being just another teenage boy.

"Où habites-tu?" He repeated the question, his impatience barely noticeable.

"Uh, j'habite avec ma famille, dans une grande maison, parce-ce il y a quatre personnes dans ma famille." Happy with his short, succinct, well-practiced, answer, he smiled. Christophe was impressed by his accent, but rather less than impressed by his sentence structure.

"You speak it well – you 'ave a beautiful voice for such zings. You speak 'ebrew?"

Maybe the French's tendency to flirt was genetic. Kyle just thought it was nice to have someone compliment him, for a change. Still, he didn't have any sort of response ready; he'd left his wit along with his hat. "Uh, thanks dude. And, yeah, kinda. I'm Jewish."

Christophe chuckled lightly, shook his head and turned to their teacher, who was ringing a tiny gold bell in the hopes of attracting the class' attention. The short Jew was just too… _something_. He wasn't sure there was a word for it. Infuriating? Yes. Insecure? Perhaps.

"Exusé!" A few turned to look at her, while the rest continued talking in a language that most definitely was _not _French.

"ÉXUSE-_MOI_!"

Silence.

"Bon! Now that I have _everyone's_ attention…"

* * *

"Kyle!"

The cafeteria was crowded, students filling up the tables with increasing speed as fewer and fewer were left to claim; the older students, and the more popular younger ones, had no reason to join in the hurry, though, and walked to their tables with the same arrogant gait as always. Obviously, they already had their assigned tables, by some unwritten "rule of cool". Or some gay shit like that.

Today, Kenny, Cartman and Butters were already seated, and their resident fatass had commenced his ritual of eating everything off of his 'friend's' trays, much to both of the blond's dismay. Or, Butters' dismay – didn't look like he gave a shit, instead waving the Broflovski boy over.

"KYLE! Dude, get over here, man!" Kenny had taken to wearing the parka without the hood after realizing that girls were a lot easier to pick up if they could understand what you were saying… But, in Kenny's case, it was a double-edged sword. "_KYYYYLE_~!"

Smiling, he made his way over to his friends. "Hey guys." He slid his tray next to his blond, blue eyed, perverted friend before sitting.

"H-Hey Kyle," murmured Butters, grinding his knuckles together in his habitually nervous way. Is someone ever took the time to look at the skin on his knuckles, someone who actually cared, they'd notice the dried red scabs, painfully ugly against such a pale complexion. It was a shame no one fit the description; not even the guy who was fucking him. "H-How're you d-doing?"

"Fine, Butters. How're you?"

"I'm g-good, thanks, Kyle."

Taking a bite of his sandwich, the Jew glanced over at the large boy across from him, who was busy shoveling food down his throat as was humanly possible. As always, the display was disgusting; he wondered how sweet little Butters could put up with something as vile and downright revolting as Cartman, simply as a friend, let alone as something closer to a _lover_. Fuck. The thought was enough to put him off his lunch.

Kenny saw the look of horror on Kyle's face and the brunette's smirk between mouthfuls of his BLT. He also saw the way the other blond studied the overweight bully's features fondly, but chose to ignore this. He'd have to give the naïve idiot 'the talk' later.

"Jesus, Cartman, slow down." It was Kyle who said what he and Kenny had both been thinking, deciding that Cartman was likely to rip on/beat the living shit out of him anyway. The Jew didn't mind giving him an excuse. "No wonder you're such a fucking fatass."

His blond giggled, while Cartman's looked terrified. Poor little guy; always on the receiving end of the Nazi's fist.

"Don't call me fat, you fucking Jew!"

"Don't call me a fucking Jew, you fucking piece of shit!"

It was simply another routine argument: Kyle red in the face and gnashing his teeth like a rabid dog, Cartman with his fists balled screaming bloody murder, the veins on his forehead and neck sticking out. The blonds moved along to the far end of the table, out of range in case a fight broke out, and also out of range from the food and spit flying from Cartman's large mouth.

"Do us all a big favour and get that sand out of your fucking vagina!"

"I DO NOT HAVE A VAGINA, FUCKTARD!"

"Calm down, Kahl. It's not your fault you're a pissy little Jew-rat."

"FUCK. YOU."

"I mean, technically, it's your mom's fault. She's such a fucking—"

"Don't you _dare_, Cartman!"

"_Bitch_. Your mom is a big, fat, fucking Jewish bitch."

"DON'T CALL MY MOM A BITCH YOU FUCKING TUB OF LARD!"

"'AY! DON'T CALL ME FAT, YOU FUCKING JEW!"

The heated battle was only broken up by Butters screams of horror as Kenny choked to death on his pickle.

Pointing and laughing at his dying friend, Cartman, who'd been forced to take a course in First Aid by his mother, made no move to help dislodge the offending fruit – yes, pickles were little cucumbers and cucumbers were technically a fruit – from Kenny's throat.

"You bastard! Your friend's dying and you don't even help!" Kyle, rather conveniently, seemed to forget the fact that he was doing nothing to help the boy in the orange parka either. "I don't fucking believe you."

The blond in the blue 'Hello Kitty' t-shirt looked about to burst into tears. "Y-Yea, Eric… T-That's not very nice."

"'Ay, you fucking faggots, Kenny dies _all the time_! He'll be back by tomorrow!" The brunette made a point not to look at the watery blue eyes looking up at him full of accusation, though the statement was directed at them rather than Kyle. For the first time in years, Cartman seemed to be justifying his actions. "Anyway, he's already dead."

Which was true; rats had already started to swarm over the dead body.

If they took the time to think, they might find it funny how no one in the cafeteria paid them any attention. After a few years of screaming, fist fights, racial slurs and Kenny dying, it wasn't any interesting. Not even Stan, who was currently whispering something into a blushing Wendy's ear two tables away, turned to acknowledge them. But, they were used to being ditched by the Marsh kid; like Kenny, he'd be back tomorrow, probably dumped, dressed like he was going to a funeral (a 'funeral for his crushed, black heart', apparently).

"You know what, Cartman?"

Eric looked at him, eyebrow arched.

"Fuck. You."

And, with that, Kyle left the cafeteria; the anger replaced by bitter hatred.

"Aw,_ sweet_!" After the Jew had gone from sight, the fat teenager grabbed the redhead's abandoned tray with an enthusiastic grin. "So, we still on for tonight, Butters?"

* * *

Christophe sat on the concrete stairs that lead to the lunch hall with a cigarette held between the fore and middle fingers of his left hand. Today, his nicotine of choice was a pack of bog-standard Marlboro reds; not very flashy, but cheap, and with the added bonus of a nice after-taste.

Behind him, the doors flew open, the resulting crash temporarily deafening him.

"WHAT ZE_ FUCK_?!" He reeled round, only to be confronted with a red-faced Kyle Broflovski. Seriously, this kid was _everywhere_.

"Sorry."

He didn't exactly seem apologetic, instead he found a seat next to the brunette and put out a hand. "Got a spare?"

Nodding and eyeing the hand with distaste, the mercenary dropped his lighter and a cigarette into his hand. "We must stop zis bumping into one anozer. Especially when you are, as your people say, 'on ze rag'."

"I'm not a fucking girl, so stop calling me one, Frenchy." He took a drag on his freshly lit cigarette, still not used to the smoke. He wished he's said he never touched the things. "I'm just pissed 'cause of that fucking fat piece of _shit_."

Grinning, the Mole turned back to face away from the cafeteria. "I will stop calling you a girl when you stop acting like one, mon ami." There was a brief pause. "Zis 'fat fucking shit' as you so affectionately call 'im… Iz 'e, by any chance, ze one zey call Eric Cartman?"

Kyle looked at him with a mixture of surprise and suspicion. "Yeah. How'd you know?"

He shrugged, grin gone, replaced by a grimace. "I know zings." _''E iz ze bastard who forgot to turn ze fucking alarms off. Fucking guard dogs. I 'ATE GUARD DOGS!'_

The Jew looked like he accepted this answer, albeit grudgingly. "He's a fat, racist, _Hitler_-worshipping, piece of shit."

"'E sounds lovely." Kyle laughed at that, inhaling from the cigarette once more. "Why do you 'ang out wiz such a dickhead?"

"I have no idea. He's like a bad habit, I suppose." Judging by the black lines under the redhead's tired eyes and the way his skin was pulled taut over cheekbones that were too sharp to be healthy, he knew a lot about bad habits. Truth be told, Christophe did too.

The brunette coughed loudly, changing the topic to something he deemed more cheerful. "So, you know much about ze Revolution?"

"What Revolution?"

_Great_, he had forgotten.

"For ze project, idiot." Shaking his head, he continued, slower this time: "We 'ave to 'ave a topic for zat mozerfucking project, and I zought ze Revolution, ze French Revolution, would be a good one."

Kyle seemed impressed. "You're actually willing to do some work?"

Now it was Christophe's turn to be confused.

"Whenever I work with someone, I end up doing everything." Memories of past works haunted him; even Stan, his 'super best friend' had let him get on with the whole ordeal alone. And, every single time, he'd gotten everyone involved an A. Did they thank him? _No_. Did they offer to help next time around? _No_.

He was so underappreciated.

"Oh." The Frenchman whistled. "Zat explains so very much, mon ami."

Sighing he snubbed the smouldering cigarette out on the floor with the sole of his converse. "So, Frenchy," he put on his best 'mock-sexy' expression and purred, "your place or mine?"

Christophe cracked up, doubled over laughing. "Do- Do not do zat, mon ami!" The Jewish boy was almost offended, but chose to join the cackling teenager. "Zat," he hiccupped. "Zat does _not_ suit you." He took a drag on his cigarette and breathed out, trying to calm himself. "And mine. I doubt I can smoke in your room, and ze cigarette iz a necessary part of my working process."

"Ooo, working process?" Snickered Kyle, amused by the Frenchman's knowledge of such a phrase.

"Oh, shut up you fucking pussy."

* * *

"…That's your car?"

"Oui."

Kyle stood outside the school gates, one eyebrow raised in disbelief. It wasn't a _car_ at all.

"Dude, it's a fucking _motorbike_."

"_Oui_."

Apparently, Christophe thought that a seventeen year old with a motorbike was the most normal thing in the world; if anything, he was shocked by Kyle's reaction.

"It iz a Truimph, you see." He ran a tanned hand along the golden 'TRUIMPH' emblazoned on the side of the bike. The brunette was proud of all his bikes, especially the British one; there were not enough European bikes in the American markets. Besides, there was something about European engineering that no American or Asian could ever recreate; they lacked the spirit – the character – of vehicles made in his native continent. "A Triumph Daytona 675, special edition. Not ze rarest or best, but it was a present. So I use it as my 'school-run' vehicle."

The Jewish boy thought that his jaw might fall off soon unless the brunette stopped saying things like that. "Who the hell would get you a bike for a gift?"

Oh, that came out wrong.

"What do you mean, 'who ze fuck would get you a bike'?" Glaring at the shorter boy, Christophe swung his leg over to the other side, mumbling something under his breath. "I 'ave friends, dickhead. Some of my friends 'appen to 'ave ze money to buy me zings like zis." He saw the wounded look on the American's face and sighed, rant stopped mid-flow. "Just get on ze bike, bitch. I am not in ze mood for zis right now."

Kyle bit his lip and did as instructed, putting his fear of getting killed on one of these things. "Sorry, I, uh, didn't mean to—"

"You might want to 'old on, mon ami."

The monster of a bike revved, and the redhead promptly wrapped his arms around the Frenchman's torso, utterly oblivious to the other's smirk.

* * *

**AN. Still not much happening, I know, but it's a start. Next chapter should be a lot more interesting~ ;) (Not in that way. **_**Perverts**** xP**_**)**

**And, yeah, school projects are a very clichéd way of getting them to spend time together xD Ohwell. Forgive me? ^^;**

**SO, here are the French translations:**

"_Maintenant, prenez votre livres."_ = "Now, take your text books."

"_Alors, salope, maintentant nous parlons le francais, d'accord?" _= "So, bitch, now we speak French, okay?"

"_Où__ habites-tu? Avec ton famille, ou seul?"_ = "Where do you live? With your family, or alone?"

"_Pourqoui t'es un émmerdant? Les Américains... J'sais pas." _= "Why are you such a major pain? Americans… I don't know."

"_J'habitait avec ma mère jusqu'y a à un an. Ma mère elle était une salope. Alors, en ce moment, j'habite dans un petit maison seulement… excepté mon chat, evidement."_ = "I lived with my mother until a year ago. My mother was a bitch. So, at the moment, I'm living in a small house alone… Except for my cat, obviously."

"_Tu-habites avec ta famille?"_ = "You live with your family?"

"_Uh, j'habite avec ma famille, dans une grande maison, parce-ce il y a quatre personnes dans ma famille."_ = "Uh, I live with my family, in a big house, because there are four people in my family."

"_Exusé!" / "ÉXUSE-MOI!"_ = "Excuse me."

**Apologies if my grammar's a little off xD It's been forever since I've had to write any French.**

— **Coma**


	4. Computer Wizard

**4.**

**COMPUTER WIZARD.**

_" I want to live where soul meets body_

_And let the sun wrap its arms around me_

_And bathe my skin in water cool and cleansing_

_And feel, feel what its like to be new._

_'Cause in my head there's a greyhound station,_

_Where I send my thoughts to far off destinations,_

_So they may have a chance of finding a place_

_Where they're far more suited than here. "_

_

* * *

_

Christophe's house was located on the far edge of the town. Hidden, it sat behind an old disused barn and a spattering of evergreens; Kyle knew that if he'd had to come here without the older brunette his chances of finding the small edifice were slim. Though, why someone would want to live out here, miles away from any form of entertainment, were beyond him. Hell, it had been a good few minutes ago that he'd glimpsed the last house, and it wasn't like the Frenchman was holding back on the speed front.

Of course, Kyle would have told him to _slow the fuck down_, but he was a little bit too busy holding on for dear life. That, and his voice would have been totally drowned out by the engine's terrible roar.

Between the derelict wooden structure of the old barn and the trees lay what appeared to be a path that curved off towards the end, gradually becoming narrower as they accelerated on to their destination. There was no way you could get a car down here; the floor of the trail was frozen mud, flanked by slightly higher banks of virgin snow. Unless you had a SUV, but then you probably wouldn't be living in the middle of fuck anywhere.

It was weird how, even in a state of abject terror, he noticed the little details. Maybe he was just used to it by now, the whole 'scared shitless' thing.

The Triumph swerved deftly to the left, Christophe somehow managing to maintain his insane speed. On one side, the old shed slouched, while the other side was nothing less than the beginning of a forest.

He almost screamed when he felt the bike jerk suddenly, speed vanishing in seconds as the brakes came on. Annoyingly, the driver had turned to look over his shoulder with a smug grin plastered on his face. Obviously, the Jew's suffering was of great amusement to him.

'_Bastard.'_

"We are 'ere, mon ami." He stared at the boy sitting behind him on the bike for a few seconds, the smile barely fading from his lightly chapped lips. Kyle was even paler than usual; his breathing harsh as he tried to fight the waves of panic radiating from his gut. It was endearing, really, while, at the same time, hilarious. "Feel free to let go of me at _any_ time. I 'ave all day."

Blushing furiously, the redhead practically fell off the bike from a mixture of shock and mortification. Luckily, he'd relinquished his grip on Christophe's waist before he tumbled gracefully, face-first into the snow.

Really, Kyle doubted that Frenchy would have appreciated getting dragged to the ground by a screaming Jewish kid.

After spitting out the dirty ice that he'd somehow managed to swallow and wiping the melted slush off his face with the sleeve of his jacket, he righted himself to the sound of Christophe's piercing cackles. Green eyes glared at the tan boy, who – honest to fucking Jehovah – was actually bent double over the handlebars, trying to stifle his laughter by biting the back of his hand.

'_Bastard._'

"Ha ha. Yeah. _Hilarious_." He tugged his backpack to secure it, before trying to pry the French idiot away from his bike. "Come on, dude." With one arm, he tried to pull the taller boy up, holding onto his backpack with the other. "For fuck's sake, it wasn't _that_ funny."

Christophe's head rose of it's own accord. "Yes, mon ami, it was. You should be a comedian." He was still giggling a little, but there was a pleasant smile on his face, rather than that self-assured smirk; his cheeks had darkened from lack of oxygen and the cold, and Kyle couldn't help find the scary, menacing teenager somewhat… cute. Like, how a tiger is cute, until it opens it's mouth and you see the gigantic, sharp, glistening, _not-very-cute_ fangs.

"Alors, Kyle, shall we go inside? Eet iz cold as fuck out 'ere."

Kyle nodded and let the mercenary lead.

* * *

Kenny sits by the phone, wringing his hands nervously as he awaits the call. If he misses it… God. He needs the money – _fuck_, he _seriously_ needs that money.

Dying is a bitch, even if it's only temporary.

And he knows that the guy that they'll send his way will be well informed on the subject of the his penchant for returning from the dead. Oh, they won't waste just any old idiot on him by this stage – he owes way too much already – so they'll send along the most fucked up sadist in their ranks.

If Kyle is lucky, they have no idea he's involved. So they'll just come for Kenny, and, at this point, maybe even Kevin, the poor bastard. Besides, it wasn't as if the Jew, smart as he is, knew the ins and outs of the arrangement

He sighs.

"The shit I get myself into…"

* * *

Inside, the small bungalow was messy, with clothes strewn about the living room and ashtrays filled with cigarette butts on every available surface. On corner held a fairly large flat screen TV, still switched on to a Wii game that had been paused at some obscenely difficult moment. Through the door, he could see a bit of the kitchen, which looked to be in something of the same state as the main room.

Again, Christophe seemed undaunted by Kyle's expression of horror (this time at the chaos), and threw his bag onto a pile of papers on the floor.

"Kitchen zrough zere," he pointed at the open door. "Bathroom zere," then he pointed at another door, this time leading off to the right. "And, most importantly," he gave Kyle what could only be described as a dirty grin, "ze bedroom." He indicated to the final door on the opposite side of the room, only, instead of stained wood, it had been painted in black gloss. The redhead raised an eyebrow in question. Noticing this, the brunette spoke up again. "When I first moved in 'ere, I wanted to make eet feel more like my own. Stupid, but, you know."

"Naw, not stupid at all." Following Christophe's lead, he chucked his bag on the sofa. Glancing around, he noticed that something very important was, for lack of a better word, _missing_. "Er, Frenchy?"

He lit his cigarette and turned. "Oui."

"Where's your computer?"

"My… computer?" He raised an eyebrow, obviously confused, as if the 'computer' was something dirty.

"Dude. Com-_pu_-ter. Keyboard, mouse, screen that glows with words on it?"

Suddenly, something seemed to click in Christophe's brain, a proverbial light bulb appearing above his head. "OH! My _computer_." He shook his head and sniggered to himself, disappearing into his bedroom, before returning with a laptop bundled up in his arms. "Eet 'asn't worked in an age, but feel free to try."

The mass of wires and cables was dropped unceremoniously in Kyle's lap, while the French teen went to busy himself in the kitchen. "_You wan' somezin' to drink, mon ami?_" His voice sounded funny from the other side of the wall – even more difficult to decipher than usual.

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

Briefly eyeing up the battered old laptop, the redhead set to work, untangling all of the various cables and figuring out which one was the power cord. Locating the thick black wire, he moved to plug it in next to the TV, just as an amused Christophe waltzed back into the room, cold beer in hand.

"I do not see ze point in fixing eet, mon ami." The redhead turned to watch the muscular boy take a seat on the arm of the sofa, eyes on the metal box sitting forlornly on the navy cushion. "We could simply do ze work wiz ze paper and pens."

Sighing and flicking the switch on the plug, Kyle made his way back to the sofa, kicking an empty water bottle out of his way. "Yeah, but paper and pens would take too long. God knows we don't have the time."

"God?" His attention devoted to the computer, the scrawny teenager didn't notice the way Christophe's eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched; he didn't hear the venom and spite that dripped off the single word, like water from a saturated sponge. "_God_?"

"Yeah, god." Connecting the other end of the power cable to the laptop, Kyle crashed down on the sofa, flipping the dented lid up with an annoyed glance up at the Frenchman hovering over his shoulder. "Er, could you, like, not sit there?"

Christophe took a swig of his beer and raised an eyebrow. "I 'ad no idea the great Broflovski was so self-conscious."

Kyle was about to reply, none too politely, something along the lines off 'fuck off, you French piece of shit', when the 'French piece of shit' cut him off.

"No worries." He practically leapt off the side of the sofa, cigarette jutting out from between his lips proudly, as he circled the piece of furniture to sit on the ottoman next to it. "Don't bitch, mon ami." Grinning, he looked at the laptop meaningfully, before letting his eyes flit back to the redhead's freckled face. "You should get to eet. Last I 'eard, zese zings still don't fix zemselves. Fucking stupid technology…"

"I'm not writing this fucking project out by hand. So just sit there and keep quiet." The device was switched on, screen lighting up as electricity coursed through its circuits. They were in business.

"You will not tell me to shut up in my own 'ouse, Jew." Rather than anger, it was resentment.

"Whatever…" Holding down a few of the keys, the loading screen turned into something completely different; from Christophe's vantage point, he could just make out the obscenely complicated sequences of codes scrolling down the scene. He'd never seen anything move so quickly.

And yet, Kyle, whose fingers were dancing across the keyboard with an effortless confidence, seemed to have no such trouble keeping up with the gibberish in front of him. His face was set in a frown on concentration, the only outward sign that he was, in fact, exerting a little energy in processing the information.

Needless to say, the smoker was impressed. He found an unopened pack of Marlboro Reds on the floor by his foot, which was fairly unusual, seeing as pretty much all of the hundred or so packs littering the small house were empty. Replacing his spent cigarette with a new one, he continued to watch his Jewish wonder at work.

Seriously. The kid was a genius.

Hell, not even Gregory had attacked a computer with the level of acquired ease; with the Brit, it was always something of a performance, an art. It was just another one of his 'see how fucking awesome I am' stunts.

Kyle made it look like so much more.

Christophe shifted on the footrest to get a better view of the screen and Kyle's hunched form, paying more attention to the way his nose scrunched up cutely; he was a mercenary he noticed things. And he was French, which meant everything he noticed somehow related to sex. Yes. That makes sense.

"_Dude_."

Snapped from his reverie, he turned to see a look of surprise, awe and horror on the Jewish boy's face, which was still glued to the laptop.

"There's a virus on here, man."

"Oui." Once again, he found himself raising an eyebrow at Kyle's affinity for stating the obvious. "I knew zat."

"Yeah, but," there were a few more hasty key strokes before that green gaze focused on him, excitement evident, "the virus… It's not like anything I've seen before."

Frowning, he nodded for Kyle to continue, which he did so willingly, enthusiasm bubbling to the surface, like a small child with a brand new toy.

"It's very complicated – _very_ complicated – and I haven't seen anything like this before." There was a pause, and then he backtracked, voice even faster and an octave higher than before. "No, no. I have seen something like that, but not for the same purpose as this. From what I can tell this virus was made by someone with some serious knowledge in the field, someone who knew exactly what files they wanted to delete, and how to do them without getting recognised." Coughing, he continued, slender fingers only tapping the odd button here and there. "I mean, obviously, most people who make these sorts of things know about shit like this, but… It's brilliant. So simple, on the surface, but, when you actually look at it, it's a very intricate piece of coding, beautifully employed."

He trailed off, before realising that Christophe was staring at him like he'd just eaten a small child. His cheeks flared bright red and he averted his eyes from the Frenchman's piercing brown ones. Sometimes he just lost himself; it couldn't be helped. Especially when he came into contact with something as awe-inspiring as that little bit of computer magic.

"_Incredible_."

Had his ears not been primed to listen out for ridicule, and had he not been blessed with hearing bordering on the supernatural (something that Cartman had ridiculed him for, seeing as it was something sneaky Jews had, because of their 'Jew-magic'), then he might have missed Christophe's admission.

And, by relation, he wouldn't have been sitting there with his eyes bugging out of his sockets, mouth opening and closing like some kind of fish.

"'Ow… 'ow do you do zis?" He felt Christophe's presence suddenly next to him, the warmth of his body only proceeding to further embarrass him. Kyle turned to look at him and found the brunette a little too close for comfort. Obviously personal space wasn't an accepted concept in continental Europe. "'Ow do you know zis?" The mercenary gestured to the laptop, disbelief palpable in his voice.

"Hobby."

The redhead didn't trust his voice to hold out for more than two syllables, so he left it at that; it was explanation enough. Computers liked him and he liked computers. End of.

Trying not to blush under the harsh brown eyes of the mercenary was more difficult than he had originally expected. It was Stan all over again. Only, he didn't feel the urge to get down on one knee and read epic poetry about love, valentine's day, how his eyes sparkled, why his laugh was the most amazing thing in the world and all that gay stuff, just to see him smile; to serenade him under the moonlight by Stark's Pond with nothing but his trusty violin and his voice, just so he knew how much he meant; to hold his hand in the darkness of the movie theatre through the scariest moments in the latest horror movie, just because blood and guts creep him out more than anything, and being there for him was the least he could do. Falling in love with your painfully heterosexual best friend was really, _really_ stupid. Kyle was not really, _really_ stupid; it was only a natural course of events, something that, over the years, he'd dealt with. Kenny, bless his immortal soul, had helped.

But, something in the Frenchman's eyes reminded him of Stan. They were far darker, far deeper, but there was that same pensive quality; thoughtful, yet reserved, while at the same time expressive, an open book, only, instead of English, each sentence was carefully encoded message. With Stan, he'd learnt the code over the period of a lifetime.

He found himself wondering if he'd ever be able to learn the Frenchman's code -- however gay that might sound.

"Should we, uh, I-I mean…" He watched the broader boy take a swig of the beer and then a drag of the cigarette, all the while struggling to force the blush staining his face away; even the tips of his ears were pink, and he had a feeling that the blush didn't stop at his neckline_. 'Fuck having pale skin.'_ "Project." Christophe hadn't broken off eye contact yet. It was suddenly a little hard to think with that sharp, penetrating gaze focused totally on his wishy-washy, dull green eyes. "Should we start the project? I mean I-I don't know if I can fix this without my stuff here… But, uh, we could do it on paper?"

A few seconds passed, and a sly smile crept onto the Frenchman's face. "Non. I shall make a start on the project some ozer time, do not worry."

"Oh, but we might as well get on with it, I mean, it's, like, why I'm here—"

"Non." Standing he downed the rest of his beer and dropped the butt of the cigarette into the empty can, before tossing it to the floor. "Broflovski, I 'ave a proposition for you."

No, Christophe wasn't indirect by any stretch of the imagination.

"A… _What_?! Dude, that seriously better not mean what I think it means. I-I don't care who fucking told you—"

He was cut off when the brunette raised an eyebrow, giving a lopsided smile. "Non. _Tempting_, but no. I 'am talking about a job zat 'as recently become available." Kyle looked taken aback, but confused. "We are in need of a tech."

Christophe hated to ask him, but, really, Gregory had been searching for a while; the blond's whining had left him desperate. Sure, that British piece of shit could do enough computer magic to astound a few in the industry, but, honestly, with the jobs that had come their way… A specialist was called for. And Gregory could not waste his time behind a monitor.

Then came the question the mercenary had been expecting. "A tech for what?"

"I work as a 'ired 'and." The term was only slightly less sinister than mercenary, and would probably fare better in this situation. Christophe shifted on the balls of his feet, uncomfortable under the Jewish boys scrutinising gaze.

"You're a mercenary?"

"Oui." Captain obvious strikes again. "And my taskmaster, as I like to refer to 'im, 'as been looking for tech for some time. The job iz well paid. Obscenely well paid. You would be in no danger, unless you yourself wish eet. Zere iz a job next—"

"Are you fucking kidding me, dude?" The scrawny teen stood, anger rolling off him in waves. "Are you fucking _kidding_ me?"

"Non." Exasperated, Christophe decided to try a… different approach. "Can I offer you somezing else, in addition, if you are interested?"

"That's it." The redhead glowered at the mercenary before spinning around to grab his bag, obscenities flying through his head at the sheer_ nerve_ of the Frenchman. "I barely even fucking know you, dude. Fucking out of line." He turned to Christophe, slinging his bag over his shoulder and jabbing a finger at him in accusation. "You are _fucked up_. You're fucking _insane_. _INSANE!_ You want to buy me off with sex? Who the _fuck_ told you? Kenny? _Cartman_?"

Christophe stared, completely baffled and slightly offended. "You zink I was offering you sex? What ze _FUCK_?!" He stalked towards the shorter boy, leaning in until their faces were inches apart. If Kyle was angry before, he had nothing on this guy. "What iz up wiz you, you hormonal pussy? I try so 'ard to be fucking civil, for once, and you just act like a prick! What would zese people tell me? What? Do I look like someone who jumps into bed with anything zat 'appens to 'ave a pulse? _DO I?!_ Iz zat what I am? IZ ZAT WHAT I FUCKING LOOK LIKE, YOU BONY PIECE OF SHIT?!"

Silence. Kyle took a step back, heart racing in his chest.

"I-I-I…" Scrambling for the right words was always a hit and miss sort of thing. "_Sorry_."

Glaring at him from under light brown bangs, Christophe muttered darkly, "you should be."

Kyle coughed, diverting the course of the conversation. "What was the 'something else' you were offering me?"

"Oh, zat!" In the blink of an eye, the mercenary's mood spiralled back from the brink of violence to that of a docile house-pet. "I zought you'd never ask, mon ami."

'_This dude,'_ Kyle thought, taking another step back. _'Is nuts.'_

"Name your… 'candy'." He gave Kyle an expectant look, to which the redhead responded with confusion.

"_Candy_? I'm not four, dumbass."

"Non, you idiot." Sighing, Christophe laid a hand on his shoulder. What was it about European's and personal space again? "_Candy_. Hard stuff, pot, whatever you desire, _yours_."

"That's even worse than the sex thing." Laughing nervously, he scratched the back of his neck. "I mean, what makes you think I'd want shit like that, dude? I don't touch the stuff."

His lie wasn't convincing in the slightest.

"I zought you people wanted whatever you could get your 'ands on?"

Kyle scoffed. "Are you ripping on me for being Jewish now, 'cause, if you are, I'll just leave."

"For a smart person, you really are terribly stupid."

"Huh?" He looked adorable when he was puzzled.

"Non, you twat, I am offering you an insanely high amount of pay for a small, easy job. I zought zat, possibly, you would be swayed wiz ze prospect of some free stuff."

Oh, he was swayed. The offer was unbearably tempting, and not just because of his selfish need to distance himself from the stressful, lonely reality he'd made home. A best friend he never saw, his other friends not really friends, only showing up when strictly necessary, and a Nazi-wannabe constantly trying to get Kyle to suck his balls, and a mother who was a Jewish version of Hitler; who wouldn't want to get away from the expectations and the drama? Besides, it would take some pressure off of Kenny, and god knows the poor boy (literally) needed the break.

Sadly, that would mean losing face. Which was never an option. Instead, he would feign innocence.

"Why would I want free stuff?"

The mercenary wasn't falling for it. "You are a user. I made ze connection."

"I'm not a fucking druggie, okay?" He slipped past Christophe and sat on the back of the couch with a dismissive shrug. "Where did you get the idea that I'm a user, anyway?"

'Kenny, if you told him, I swear to god…'

"In my line of work, you learn to notice ze small zings. I know many users. Eet iz not rocket science, after all."

After a pregnant pause, Kyle spoke, his tone distracted; his eyes darted around the room, betraying his thoughts.

"I'll think about it. Could you… Could you drive me home now, please?"

* * *

**AN. Alright, this chapter is basically one big scene xD Sorry about that. It took a lot longer to write than I thought it would, and the scene itself is a lot longer than I originally pictured, so, for updating's sake, I've separated what would have been one epic chapter into two more manageable ones ^^ So, the part I was really looking forward to writing has been postponed ): Hopefully, I can get it done soon. **

**Note: I haven't checked this chapter properly, because otherwise I'd never get it up xD If you notice any issues, please tell me, so I can fix them. It'd be a huge help :)**

**Lyrics at the beginning are Death Cab For Cutie's "Soul Meets Body" lyrics. It will all make sense in the end ;) (Hopefully xD)**

**Please read and review ;) Little stuff like that inspires me to write quicker, and it's always nice to get reviews ^^; **

— **Coma**


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